


Summertime

by satb31



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beaches, Canon Era, Fluff and Angst, Honeymoon, M/M, Moving, Nude Beach, References to Shakespeare, Sandcastles, Summer, Surfing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of eight drabbles on summer-related themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Courfeyrac/Grantaire: At the Beach

When Grantaire finally staggered downstairs after an evening of extensive and determined drinking, the house was almost completely empty — save for Courfeyrac, who was sunning himself out on the deck in a tank top and shorts.

“There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the counter,” Courfeyrac called out cheerfully when he heard Grantaire’s footsteps. “And croissants are on the table.”

Grantaire pointedly ignored the food and lurched toward the coffeemaker, then wandered out to join his friend. “Where the fuck is everyone?” he asked, squinting against the midday sun as he slumped into a deck chair, both hands wrapped around his steaming mug of dark roast.

“If by everyone, you mean Enjolras and Combeferre, they went out sailing,” Courfeyrac said, earning a scowl from Grantaire. “Combeferre was interested in learning more about boats and rigging and such, so he dragged our fearless leader with him. I’ll be surprised if one of them doesn’t end up in Nantucket Sound,” he added with a chuckle.

Slumping further down in his chair, Grantaire grunted. “I hope they both end up in Nantucket Sound,” he muttered as he put his mug on the table and rubbed his throbbing temples.

Courfeyrac’s eyes were wide with sympathy. “It was inevitable, you know? I think they’ve been soulmates since we were kids—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Grantaire snapped back.

Courfeyrac nodded. “So we won’t talk about it,” he said simply. “Should we talk about what we’re going to do today, then?” he asked.

Grantaire snorted. “Go back to bed, most likely,” he replied. “Maybe get shitfaced later?”

“We didn’t come all the way to the Vineyard to sleep all day,” Courfeyrac insisted. “Or spend it completely wasted. Finish your coffee and I’ll take you to my favorite beach in the whole world. Great scenery, I promise.” He stood up and went back into the kitchen. “And maybe it will take your mind off our friends,” he called out.

Grantaire pursed his lips, unconvinced, but without a word he downed the rest of his coffee, and padded upstairs to change into swim trunks and an ancient t-shirt. He grabbed his sunglasses and his flask, and headed back downstairs, where Courfeyrac waited for him with a blanket and two beach towels over his arm, as well as a very large bottle of suntan lotion.

“Are you planning to be out there all day?” Grantaire said, nodding to indicate the bottle.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “You need to make sure every inch of skin is covered where we’re going,” he said mysteriously, snatching his car keys off the table by the door and heading out to his jeep, with an intrigued Grantaire tagging close behind.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at their destination up island. Courfeyrac parked the jeep in the resident parking - one of the benefits of being part of a family who owned a house on the island — and the two men made their way to the beach. Grantaire was impressed by the cliffs that swept down to the surf below, wishing immediately he had brought his sketchpad with him.

They found a spot down the shoreline, slightly away from the small crowd of beachgoers, and Courfeyrac spread the blanket out across the sand. Immediately Grantaire stripped off his shirt and stretched out on the blanket, balling up his shirt to use as a makeshift pillow. He closed his eyes against the sun, enjoying the warm feeling on his skin and the lulling sound of the ocean waves in the distance.

“Can you help me put lotion on my back?” Courfeyrac asked, interrupting his reverie.

Grantaire grunted his assent and sat up, opening his eyes to the sight of a stark naked Courfeyrac grinning down at him. “Jesus Christ, Courf,” he exclaimed. “Give me a warning, will you? You’re going to get us arrested, man,” he said, trying to avert his eyes from his friend’s body.

“It’s a nude beach,” Courfeyrac said, casually handing the suntan lotion to Grantaire and sitting cross legged in front of him. “Guess I should have mentioned that, huh?”

Grantaire uncapped the bottle and poured lotion on his hands. “That would have been nice,” he said through clenched teeth, as he applied the lotion to Courfeyrac’s back and resisted the urge to peek over his shoulder to investigate his assets further.

“I used to come here all the time when I was a teenager,” Courfeyrac explained. “It’s how I learned that I may not just be attracted to women,” he added, tilting his head to indicate a well-endowed man strolling by in just his flip-flops.

Trying his best not to stare at the passersby in various states of undress, Grantaire instead focused his gaze on Courfeyrac’s back. “I can certainly understand the feeling,” he murmured as he continued to work his fingers on Courfeyrac’s back. He had never thought of Courfeyrac as anything more than Enjolras’s other best friend — but now he was intrigued, even as he felt sure he would not be up to Courfeyrac’s standards.

Suddenly Courfeyrac rose to his feet. “Take your suit off and let’s go in the water,” he implored, tugging on Grantaire’s hand.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Grantaire said, pulling his hand away. “No one wants to see me naked.”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “Maybe some of us do,” he said coyly over his shoulder as he walked away toward the ocean. Grantaire watched him go, pondering both Courfeyrac’s golden body and his flirtatious words.

And he peeled off his trunks and ran to join him.


	2. Jehan/Joly: Summer Heat

The time had come for Joly and Prouvaire to make a decision.

Prouvaire was going to be moving out of Boston to go to graduate school in the fall, and in a burst of emotion at the thought of being apart from Joly, he had asked Joly to move with him; to his delight and shock, Joly had quickly said yes.

The problem was that Prouvaire had been accepted to programs in two places — one in the Midwest, and one in the South. He liked both programs equally — he was excited about the program of study at each university, and at each place there was a professor he really wanted to work with. That spring Prouvaire and Joly had visited both cities, and found them to have everything they wanted in a new place to live — hospitals where Joly could easily find a job, affordable housing, and an activist community they could get involved with.

The biggest obstacle, as it turns out, was the weather.

Joly did not deal with heat well — his pale skin burned after mere moments in the sun, and during the one week each summer when Boston’s temperatures would hit the 90s, he would hide in his apartment with the shades pulled and the window air conditioning unit on full blast, as even a short walk outside in the humidity would leave him weak with exhaustion and dripping with sweat. His inability to cope with heat made him wary of moving to the South, knowing that several months of sweltering days would be too much for him to handle

For his part, Prouvaire loved the heat of summer — on hot days he would strip to just a pair of too-short shorts and lie on the chaise longue on his deck, completely oblivious to the thickness of the air outside as he cultivated his tan each summer. He almost felt as if he was storing up light and heat to keep him from succumbing to his seasonal depression during the long, dark New England winter — and he was concerned that a move to the Midwest, with its even longer and darker winters, would make it even worse.

The two men went around and around for several weeks, trying to figure out what would be the best solution to their dilemma. For a brief moment, Prouvaire even proposed putting off graduate school completely, not wanting to sacrifice his blossoming relationship with Joly, but Joly refused to even consider the idea. “You’ve wanted nothing more than to teach literature, Jehan,” he said, stroking his boyfriend’s face tenderly. “I would never allow you to give that up for me.”

They appeared to be at a complete impasse — so much so that Prouvaire was convinced they were going to have to break up — until Prouvaire finally confided in Grantaire one night at the Musain.

“You mean you’re going to break up over climate differences?” Grantaire said incredulously. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he scoffed, pulling out his wallet and rifling through it until he located a dogeared business card. “Here, call my therapist. She’s from Minnesota or something — she’ll know what to do.”

A week later, Joly came home from the hospital to find Prouvaire sitting at the kitchen table, pulling a large lamp out of a box. “What is that?” Joly asked as he came over to stand by Prouvaire, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s a light box,” Prouvaire said. “I went to see Grantaire’s therapist and she swears by this thing,” he said, examining his purchase. “It’s supposed to help with the — with the darkness,” he said.

Joly wrapped his arms around Prouvaire. “So does that mean…”

Prouvaire leaned into his embrace. “It means we’re moving west,” he said with a smile. “Together.”


	3. Combeferre/Grantaire: Angst at the Beach

The light of the full moon streamed into the windows of the second floor bedroom, waking Grantaire from a sound sleep. He wasn’t immediately sure where he was, but as he groped around the tangled bedsheets, he finally remembered.

He was — or at least he had been — with Combeferre.

But Combeferre was nowhere to be found.

Grantaire rose and staggered to the window, peering out into the night. The moonlight reflected off the ocean — and illuminated a single figure sitting on the rocky beach.

It was Combeferre, now found.

Grantaire rummaged around on the floor and located his discarded boxer shorts before slipping out of the house and down to the beach. As he approached Combeferre, who was wearing Grantaire’s t-shirt and his own pair of shorts, he noticed that he was smoking a cigarette.

In the seven years he had known Combeferre, he had never seen him smoke.

"Do they allow smoking on the beaches up here?" Grantaire asked, taking a seat beside his friend.

Combeferre took a long drag on his cigarette. “This house has belonged to my family for five generations — I think I can smoke on this beach if I want to, don’t you think?” he said acidly, blowing a trail of smoke into the darkness.

Grantaire pointedly avoided his gaze. “If you insist,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

"What happens in Maine stays in Maine — right?" Combeferre said sharply, glaring at Grantaire.

Wishing he himself had a cigarette — or something stronger — Grantaire fingered the frayed hem of his boxer shorts. “Look, Combeferre, maybe I shouldn’t have let this happen—”

"Too late for that now, isn’t it?" Combeferre said, stubbing out his cigarette on a rock. "We did it, and it can’t be undone, can it? Just forget it ever happened, okay?"

"I can’t forget it," Grantaire said stubbornly. "I don’t want to forget it. But what happens when we get back to Boston? Are we a couple now?"

"You tell me," Combeferre replied, equally stubbornly. "Is that what you want?"

Grantaire picked up a stone and weighed it in his hands, listening to the steady sound of the waves as they broke on shore. His mind was racing with all of the possible ways this could go wrong. But he also knew that with Combeferre, there was the possibility that somehow, some way, this could go right.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I think it is."


	4. Courfeyrac/Marius: Honeymoon

Marius’s favorite book was Eat Pray Love.

It was a source of a great deal of teasing from his fiance Courfeyrac, who scoffed at the entire concept behind the book. “I thought I was done with that self-actualization bullshit when I broke with Prouvaire,” he would say, rolling his eyes as Marius pouted in protest.

But after their engagement, when it came time for them to plan their honeymoon, it was he who suggested two weeks at a resort in Bali. Marius’s eyes grew wide. “You’d do that for me?” he had asked. “We can’t afford that.”

Courfeyrac had chuckled and kissed him on the forehead. “I can tap into a little of that de Courfeyrac money — don’t worry about that.”

So after their wedding — a simple ceremony in the park, followed by a luncheon at Courfeyrac’s favorite restaurant with a few family members and their group of friends — they headed out to JFK to board the first of three flights that would take them west.

Marius was a nervous wreck the entire journey — he worried about making their connections at LAX, he worried about losing their luggage, he worried about whether the meals would give him food poisoning.

"Relax," Courfeyrac kept imploring him, as he kicked back and drank copious amounts of wine. "It will all be fine."

By the time they finally arrived at their final destination — a glorious resort with a view of the ocean — Marius was sweating furiously due to both the heat and the stress of traveling. When they arrived at their private villa, he continued to pace around the room, waiting for their bags to be delivered so he could finally change into more appropriate clothing for the humid weather.

Courfeyrac slipped up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. “Why don’t you go take a long shower, Mr. Courfeyrac-Pontmercy,” he murmured against his neck.

Marius craned his neck to look at him. “I thought it was Pontmercy-Courfeyrac,” he said prissily.

"Whatever you want, love," Courfeyrac said, kissing his shoulder. "Just go."

Making his way into the spacious stone bathroom, Marius turned on the shower and stripped off all his clothes, which could practically stand on their own after two days of travel. He stood under the spray for a long time, closing his eyes and allowing the tepid water to wash away the stresses of the wedding and the travel.

Suddenly he felt a strong pair of arms around his waist, as Courfeyrac joined him in the shower. “Feel better?” he asked, pecking Marius on the lips.

Marius threw his arms around Courfeyrac’s neck. “I don’t think really I’m cut out for voyages of self-discovery,” he replied with a self-effacing laugh.

Courfeyrac grinned. “Well, if you don’t think you’re up for discovering yourself, perhaps you’ll let me discover you instead,” he purred, allowing his hand to wander below Marius’s waist.


	5. Joly/Bossuet: Surfing Accident

Joly pushed back the curtain of examining room B. “So what happened here, Mr—” he squinted at the chart — “Laigle de Meaux?”

“Call me Bossuet, doctor,” replied the bald man sitting on the table, wearing just a pair of board shorts and holding a blood-stained cloth to a gash on his head. “I had an accident with my surfboard.”

Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, Joly chuckled in spite of himself. “Surfing can be a dangerous sport,” he murmured, as he started to clean the young man’s wound. “Did you fall off your board?”

Bossuet winced as Joly touched the gash. “Nah, I was taking my board off the roof of my car and conked myself in the head with it,” he said with a shrug.

The corners of Joly’s mouth twitched into a smile. “That’s unfortunate,” was all he could manage to say as he peered at the wound. “It looks like you’ll need a couple of stitches.”

“You know, I should probably come up with a better story,” Bossuet said cheerfully, as Joly prepared to stitch him up. “Something about how angry the sea was that day, and how I fought like hell to keep from drowning — but somehow I heroically prevailed.”

Joly chuckled. “It would probably make it easier to pick up girls,” he said. “Or guys — whatever you prefer,” he added quickly.

“Either way,” Bossuet said with a shrug. “I’m easy.”

As he stitched up the wound, Joly couldn’t stop smiling — Bossuet’s easy charm was enormously appealing to him. “All done,” he said as he finished his work, tugging off his gloves. “You’re free to hit the beach again.”

“I think I’ll try a safer hobby, like drinking,” Bossuet said as he hopped off the table and shook Joly’s hand. “Maybe you’d join me sometime?” he asked.

Joly grinned. “I’d like that.”


	6. Enjolras/Combeferre/Courfeyrac: Shakespeare in the Park

Combeferre’s birthday was in June — and Courfeyrac had decided he had the perfect surprise.

“Shakespeare in the park?” Enjolras had asked, looking up from his book with a furrowed brow when Courfeyrac came to him with the idea. “Really?”

Courfeyrac nodded vigorously. “It’s perfect — you know he loves the theatre. We can get lawn seats for cheap, and get some wine and some fancy sandwiches. Maybe for a change you can even take out the pans you’ve been storing in your oven and whip up a cake for him,” he suggested.

Enjolras stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He does have a soft spot for my lemon cake,” he mused. “Which play is it?”

Opening the brochure, Courfeyrac located the appropriate date. “It looks like it’s King Lear,” he replied, with a shrug. Neither he nor Enjolras knew a lot about Shakespeare.

Enjolras grunted and returned to his book. “Buy the tickets and I’ll pay you back,” he said gruffly.

On Combeferre’s birthday, Enjolras and Courfeyrac asked Combeferre to meet them at the Musain. After a round of drinks, they gave him a card with the tickets inside.

“Lear?” Combeferre asked, looking back and forth between them. “I didn’t think either of you would ever want to go see Shakespeare.”

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Enjolras. “For you, Combeferre, anything,” he said, as Courfeyrac nodded his assent.

Combeferre smiled and patted him on the back. “Thanks, man,” he said, his eyes meeting those of his friends in gratitude.

They made their way over to the park, where they spread their blanket and opened a bottle of wine. The sandwiches Courfeyrac brought from a favorite deli of his in his neighborhood were a big hit, as was Enjolras’s lemon cake, of which Combeferre devoured two slices.

When the play started at sunset, Combeferre was at rapt attention, drinking in the entire scene and basking in Shakespeare’s poetic words, as his friends exchanged glances, knowing they’d chosen well for him.

By the time they reached Act IV, it was completely dark — and Enjolras had dozed off with his head on a snoring Courfeyrac’s stomach.

But Combeferre remained transfixed, thrilled that his friends had given him the best present ever.


	7. Feuilly/Bahorel: Building Sandcastles

It was Feuilly who assembled Les Amis’s four-person team for the sandcastle building contest: he invited Bahorel for his strength, Grantaire for his artistic talents, and Prouvaire for his enthusiasm. But the castle design was ultimately Feuilly’s vision — he spent his evenings off from work sketching his ideas and making lists of the tools they would need so Bahorel could go scrounge them up for them.

“It’s going to be brilliant,” Bahorel assured his boyfriend, but Feuilly wasn’t convinced.

The day of the contest dawned brightly, with a cool breeze coming off the ocean. The team looked like a motley bunch — Bahorel was clad in a muscle shirt and Grantaire was his usual disheveled self, while Prouvaire had managed to find the brightest and shortest pair of orange shorts Feuilly had ever seen — so much so that the team next to them could not avoid laughing at them.

But when the contest began, they moved with an intense efficiency — Bahorel and Prouvaire began building up a pile of sand, building a foundation and molding it into the rough shape of Feuilly’s castle design. They then turned it over to Feuilly and Grantaire, who created all of the details of the walls and turrets while Prouvaire looked around for shells to use as decoration and Bahorel brought in buckets of water to keep the castle wet.

When the competition was over, Bahorel snapped pictures on his phone, then collapsed on the sand next to Feuilly. “It looks good,” he said, squeezing Feuilly’s hand, but Feuilly still wasn’t convinced.

They ended up winning second place, only losing to a team who had competed in every contest since it had started. As Prouvaire and Grantaire celebrated — the latter trash talking their disdainful neighbors — Bahorel embraced Feuilly. “See? I told you so?” he said, planting a kiss on Feuilly’s smiling mouth.

And as the sun set over the ocean, and the contestgoers adjourned to the nearby bars to celebrate, Bahorel and Feuilly watched the sandcastle — so beautiful, and yet so temporary — wash away into the sea.


	8. Courferyac/Jehan: Bouquet of Flowers

Prouvaire had not been in attendance at recent meetings of Les Amis.

It was certainly uncharacteristic of the young poet to ever miss a meeting; his face usually beamed with great joy he felt whenever he was with his friends, so it was concerning for the entire group when he was not in attendance. As the group went their separate ways, Enjolras motioned to his two lieutenants, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, to inquire about Prouvaire’s whereabouts.

Combeferre shook his head. “I have not seen him since last Thursday,” he said soberly. “Perhaps he is ill?”

Enjolras nodded sagely. “We should inquire at his quarters and investigate,” he said, looking back and forth between his two friends, his meaning crystal clear.

“I will go,” Courfeyrac quickly offered. “I have become quite familiar with Prouvaire’s rooms of late,” he added, to neither of his friends’ surprise.

As he made his way through the streets of Paris, a man with a mission, he paused at a flower seller and purchased a small bouquet, knowing that his dear friend would appreciate the riot of colors, regardless of his ailment.

He made his way upstairs with a breezy wave to Prouvaire’s landlady, who had become used to Courfeyrac’s comings and goings. He knocked lightly on Prouvaire’s door before pushing it open, knowing that he tended to keep his door unlocked, despite warnings from his friends about his safety.

“Prouvaire?” he called out, peering into the darkened room. “Are you at home?”

“No,” came a muffled voice from the direction of the bed.

Courfeyrac removed his hat and placed it on the table, and put the bouquet in the one , then moved toward the unmade bed, where Prouvaire was lying face down in tangled sheet, clad in just his shirt. “Your friends are concerned about your health, Prouvaire,” he said gently as he perched on the side of the bed. “Especially me,” he added, brushing the back of Prouvaire’s neck with his hand. “Is it an illness of the body or of your soul?” he asked.

Prouvaire turned to peek at him. “It is the latter, I fear,” he said quietly. “The darkness has been overwhelming of late. I feel a despair in my very bones, and I do not feel as if I can even rise from my bed.”

“There is no need for despair,” Courfeyrac answered, trying for a tone that was simultaneously optimistic and yet understanding of Prouvaire’s sadness. “After all, the world is full of beautiful things is it not? I mean, behold the flowers I purchased for you,” he said, gesturing toward the bouquet on the desk. “Are they not a sign of the beauty in this world? Are they not a sign that spring will come after the dark of winter?”

Prouvaire sat up slowly, looking back and forth between the flowers and Courfeyrac’s face. “You brought me flowers?” he asked incredulously. “Why ever would you do such a thing?”

Courfeyrac tilted his chin up and kissed him softly on the lips. “I have missed you terribly, Prouvaire. We all have. We miss your smile and your keen mind. And while I know I cannot ever heal you completely — I wish to help you as best I can. Would you allow me to?”

Prouvaire’s sweet smile finally emerged. “Indeed.”


End file.
